


pygmalion's lament

by Chromathesia



Series: acoc fics by chrom [6]
Category: A Crown of Candy - Fandom, Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Oops, Post-Campaign, it's all angst folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromathesia/pseuds/Chromathesia
Summary: The war's over and won, and Amethar finds something unexpected deep in the recesses of the castle, within his shrine to his sisters.
Relationships: Calroy Cruller/Amethar Rocks
Series: acoc fics by chrom [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782913
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	pygmalion's lament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silkskin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkskin/gifts).



> this is probably my last calmethar-centric fic in a short while, as i've targeted enough of my friends with tailored sadness.

_there is an old story passed down in Ceresia of an artist of great renown who shunned the concept of love, who looked upon peers who chose to stagnate in favor of wives and husbands with disapproval. one day, the artist decided that he would create a masterpiece, a sculpture so perfect that he could marvel at it for many years to come. he acquired a block of the finest ricecake that he could find and studied it for days, unable to raise his knife to the immaculate surface. finally, he made the first cut and from there it seemed as though he could not rest until this, his most beautiful sculpture, was completed. after many long weeks, he finally put his carving tools down and gazed into the eyes of his creation: a beautiful woman staring back at him, the start of a grin curving against her lips._

_and against all odds, despite his oath to himself and to the divinity of that which he scorned, he felt himself fall in love with that which he created._

* * *

The castle is quiet after everything ends, after flags fall and banners are burned and the final stench of villainy and treachery are smoked out of the halls he once called home. Amethar hates that the smells of war are familiar to him, now: they filter through the window, acrid with fear and anger and turmoil and filth. Something foul curls inside of his chest, in a cavity that had once been occupied by the man whose blood covers his hands, his sword, his clothes, his–

He feels ill.

The castle is ruined besides what war has done to it. He can see crumbs sparkling on the ground where glasses were thrown at the walls, the portraits of his ancestors slashed through the neck, his feet crunch over rubble from both the walls and the furniture, and he feels a weight on his shoulders far heavier than any mantle forced upon him. 

He feels tired.

His feet drag along the ground, heavy for reasons that Amethar cannot begin to comprehend. He is exhausted by the forced return to war and winded from its sudden end– the Ravening War had been five long, excruciating years, and this had been such a small blip in comparison. And yet, and yet, it took just as much from him (he thinks he hears Jet’s laughter echoing along with his footsteps. he doesn’t. the castle is so silent in his wake) (this was why he told Ruby and Saccharina and Liam to go to Dulcington to help the town rebuild today) (this is why he didn’t let Theo or Cumulous join him).

He feels– he feels–

He feels.

He cannot sit in the throne again, knowing who sat in it just weeks prior. He cannot sit there without feeling nauseous, sick to the deepest pit of his stomach. A poison had settled there over the course of twenty-odd years of smiles and laughs and duels and touches and–

Amethar walks past the throne room quickly. There are too many ghosts there, now.

He is in turmoil and at all points at which he was in turmoil for the past two decades he’s sought counsel from a family who could never respond and so his feet lead him through hallways until he is in front of a door left slightly ajar. He prods it open, walks in, and looks up.

The first thing he notices is that someone has moved his sisters. They had once stood in a tight circle: Rococoa to the north, Citrina to the east, Lazuli to the west, Sapphria to the south. Only Rococoa remains where she once stood. The others seem to have been nudged over for–

The second thing he notices is that there is a fifth figure in the circle now. It’s unfinished, mostly just a chunk of violently purple rock candy that stands as tall as Sapphria to Citrina’s left. A chill runs up his spine at the sight, and he almost numbly walks up to the chunk.

The chunk is not just a chunk of rock, as he had been hoping (but not expecting). It’s like looking into a mirror, on the other side: that single loc of his that was slightly too short to tuck behind a ear and always falls in front of his right eye, the way it stands just a tad hunched over from carrying his family’s grief, even the slight dimple in his left cheek that was a permanent partner to the smile that he tended to wear, the smile that this carving wore on him. There’s a human imperfection to the likeness carved into the rock that reminds Amethar of the shallow man that he used to be: a scar on his lip from when he had tried to eat his sword, a slash on his cheek from a practice duel, the feeble veneer of humor his eyes used to wear to cover whatever turmoil rolled inside of him. There’s an authenticity in the way the statue-in-progress stands that his sisters’ statues don’t wear.

It’s maddeningly obvious how intimately the sculptor of this piece knew Amethar, how absurdly lovingly each of those imperfect details were carved.

It infuriates Amethar because he knows who it was.

He doesn’t see the mirror image anymore through the angry tears that spring up in his eyes at the sight of this baffling effigy. Amethar can imagine the sculptor of this piece crouched in front of this piece of rock candy so clearly, despite wishing he could scrub all knowledge of him from his mind. He can see the concentration in his gaze, the patience in how still he could sit for hours at a time, the way that a thumb might have brushed across a cheek. Did he wrap his arms around it to see how firmly it fit in his arms? Did he kiss the statue’s lips to ensure that they felt right? Was it as obvious to him how much god-fucking-damned _love_ was in this piece of living rock?

Amethar wants to destroy it. He wants to take Payment Day, as bloodied as it still is, and smash it into this sculpture. He wants to take its head off, he wants to crush it under a fist, he wants to break his sword against the rock until the blade is dulled and the statue in pieces around him. He wants to feel the primal, furious joy of watching this careful, methodical work crumble beneath his wayward actions.

He won’t. He won’t destroy this strange monument to himself, carved so delicately by the man who slotted himself so neatly in Amethar’s life, once, who had destroyed his family, who had brought the war back to his life with pounding heartbeats and dug-out graves in the Candian farmlands. There’s something _too_ intimate about this statue, about the details immortalized; Amethar notices that the fold of his kingly garb is off, that there is no crown on his head despite his sisters wearing their royal tiaras on their statues. It is himself, yes, but it’s the self he was when he hung up his duties as King and became just Amethar.

It’s the self that Calroy had seen and proclaimed to love.

Amethar looks at the statue. He sees the half-smile that he could never quite control around him.

He tries to mimic it, grin back at the statue. Somehow, without seeing it, he knows he’s failed.

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/chromathesia) and [Tumblr](https://chromathesia.tumblr.com).


End file.
